Odd Meetings
by randomly-placed-herbs
Summary: This is a series I've had in my head for awhile now. I had the idea to create scenarios where RE characters who've never met, meet. I appreciate any reviews or hearing anyone's ideas on a meeting they'd like to see. At the moment I have Piers and Sheva, Piers and Steve, and Hunnigan and Sherry's up.
1. Piers and Sheva

_Piers Nivans and Sheva Alomar _

Computers were a pain in the ass—plain and simple. It was for that simple reason that Piers became a fighter—a solider of brute force with brilliant tactics and wit, just as his own father had been before him and his grandfather even earlier. He was no computer wiz. Hell, he barely knew how to use the damn thing. He came from a long and proud line of warriors, each knowing exactly what they had gotten themselves into and valiantly fighting their own respective wars. Training was training, but this—this was _torture._

Thinking back on his heritage, even momentarily, had stirred an unidentifiable feeling in his chest. His father had known exactly what he was meant to do. Piers had no clue what he had wanted to be, even with his abilities he had trouble choosing what he wanted after he got out of high school. His mother cried over every single option he considered, not wanting her last bit of family to join _anything_. She knew he'd leave her. She was afraid—just as he had been. Oh _God _he had been afraid. He didn't want to die; he didn't want to leave his mother alone forever. After his father passed, she had never been the same. He was scared, oh so very afraid of the possible outcomes—scared for her, scared for his future. His father's death had caused him to fear his own demise. But death was funny that way, he supposed. Death could change even the most hardened of men, he remembered thinking. No one ever really gets over seeing a comrades life end in front of their eyes, that feeling of helplessness; knowing that those brave hearted men will never again experience the warmth of life or feel the love of their family. Edonia had changed Piers—that much was certain. Sometimes Piers had wondered if this had been how his father felt shortly before death on the battlefield, the pain of watching everyone you love die. Seeing the downfall of a life was a shame—a real pity. But the only difference from Piers and his father was that bio-terrorism has become a whole new game in an even scarier ball park.

He was sure that his father would've been proud had seen how far he had come. Just like Piers, his father had been a brilliant sniper. A top class marksman to which, through his father's legacy, Piers picked up his first and only rifle at that time. It had been his father's favorite. He still owned that gun; it was under his bed right that moment, unloaded and polished to perfection. That gun had helped Piers through the years more then he could have ever guessed it would. His father's rifle was his security blanket, his comfort during the thunderstorms consuming his life. Though he would never admit it out loud, his depression over Edonia had been getting worse and worse since the disappearance of his Captain. He hated to think about it, but repressing those memories would do him far worse than confronting them. He would bring out the rifle, talk to it as if it were his own father. It seemed silly—crazy even, but it calmed Piers. He would talk about all of his problems, all of his fears, all of his pain. He would talk until he had almost broken down to tears, trying his damn near hardest to imagine what his fathers hand would feel like clutching his shoulder firmly, warmly telling Piers how he was stronger than the tears. It wasn't until he finished his one sided conversation without any tears that he would sit there in the dim light of the room and peer into the nothingness of silence. Then he would cry; he would remember how alone he truly was, his team gone, his best friend and captain lost to the streets of Europe—bar hopping and eluding even the B.S.A.A. It was a touchy subject for Piers.

_Chris Redfield. _Yes, the thorn in his side he was currently toughing out the dreaded computer for. It didn't matter that it was four in the morning and Piers hadn't slept right in days. It wasn't like he really _could _sleep. If he would—he could miss a valuable lead. Again. The monitor was the only thing illuminating the room, empty cans of energy drinks and fatty snack wrappers littering the desk in his top floor apartment which was connected to one of the B.S.A.A's many North American branches, this one located in Washington D.C. He was about to call it a night—his energy drinks wearing off and his hands cramping from the hours of typing up reports and reviewing information. The very last thing he expected had been a call on his apartment's phone.

"Nivans here, what's the problem?" His voice held a low and respectful tone, knowing damn well it could be one of his superiors as much as it could've been the front desk. Normally he rooted for the desk clerks. After all, not all of his superiors had been as kind to him as his Captain had been.

"We need you down in the main lobby ASAP. There's a B.S.A.A. member from the West African branch here who has just arrived. She wishes to speak to you, something extremely important pertaining to Mr. Redfield's disappearance." It had been a voice he recognized. Mary-something? It had been too long for him to really remember. She had been the first to greet him upon his arrival three months ago. He was kicking himself for not remembering, these three long months had really been getting to him. He was exhausted—but if this woman, whoever she was, could give him some clues, he might just get this nightmare over with once and for all. He could wait to sleep; he'd gone without it for so long he doubted he would really bat an eyelash over two or three more lost hours.

It had been cold outside earlier, a coat would be a good idea, he thought. He bet he looked like a train wreck while staring at the bags under his eyes, his coat seemed to magically appear on his body without his recollection. He almost drunkenly stumbled over to the door, slapping himself in a less than perfect attempt to stay awake. Women had never been particularly terrifying or intimidating to him, but he couldn't deny that felt a little…well, _gross _at the moment_. _At least he showered earlier that day, and at least he was finally talking to someone who knew a thing or two. It wasn't until he got into the elevator and felt the machine slowly descend down did he fully feel the nervous twist in his gut. Six months of nothing, and this was it. Everything he had been waiting for. _Thank God._

Getting off of the elevator had been harder than Piers thought it would be, but his resolve had become stronger then ever. He saw her; she had been talking to Mary before glancing over towards Piers. A warm smile found its way to her lips, even into her eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen person with such an obvious spark of life. Her skin was dark and sun kissed from her time in the sun, her dark hair was pulled back into a semi messy ponytail, most likely from the long plane ride she had taken to get here. She wore a grey business suit with a white button up underneath. Her skirt was short, but even Piers couldn't deny that she pulled it off perfectly. She was very beautiful.

"Hello—urm, Piers, may I call you?" Her accented voice asked. He nodded, grinning back softly from the warm aura she seemed to radiate. Her kindness seemed almost infectious. "Right, my name is Sheva Alomar of the B.S.A.A. West African branch. As you've been told, I have some information regarding Chris Redfield," She paused, adjusting her rolled up sleeve and looking up into Piers' face, all hints of warmth gone as she pressed her lips together tightly, thinking about her words.

"Immediately after I heard about his disappearance from the hospital I offered to help out with the search. For the past six months I have been aiding in the efforts, hoping to find some clues to his whereabouts. For the past six months you've been on trips to many various countries, submitting your reports and narrowing down possible places of residence. From looking at one of your last reports combined with countless of others from the different countries around the world, we've narrowed it down." Piers was silent, slowly absorbing the information presented to him while at the same time trying to figure out where he recognized her from. He sure as hell hadn't ever seen her in his life. Her name sounded familiar.

"You've found him? We've finally done it?" He couldn't help but to let his voice quiver. After five months of searching through Europe, one month of typing reports from Europe, had they finally found him? They had sure been to hell and back to get him.

"He's in Serbia." Piers hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath until he let it out.

"And you're sure?" He gained his composure quickly, taking the tone of voice and stance he had grown used to, comfortable in. He was done being the depressed _little kid _he had been acting as. He was a solider for Chrissake, not some girl scout on holiday.

"Ninety-nine point eight-nine percent sure, Mr. Nivans—and we leave Thursday." It was Tuesday, he would leave in two days. That was plenty of time to prepare for the trip, gather and polish his weapons and _sleep_.

"We?"

"I'll be accompanying you for part of the plane trip before hopping on a different plane back to my bases headquarters." Piers was confused, couldn't this have been done over the phone, an email? Not that he minded the woman's company, but it just seemed so strange—so unnecessary.

"Couldn't there have been a better way to contact me than to come here and tell me all that in person?"

"I wanted to meet the future of this division myself." She smiled knowingly, her words confusing Piers—but he brushed it off once she started talking again. "It's been a pleasure Piers Nivans, I will meet with you tomorrow to help with you and your teams debriefing. You had better get some sleep; you're in for a rough month." Yet again she smiled, this time sadly. It was like she knew everything, _really _knew. He had a feeling he was receiving her pity. Normally it would've offended him, but he just accepted it. He was too tired to feel anything but numb. She knew what he was in for, he would find out tomorrow. Sheva nodded her head once before beginning to walk off, seemingly done with the conversation.

"Wait, Sheva!" He finally remembered where he had recognized her from, his face shifting in an instant as his mind clicked on to the answer. "You're the woman who aided Chris in the Kijuju incident, weren't you? Sheva Alomar?" He remembered Chris' tales of Kijuju, of Albert Wesker and his madness. He remembered Chris talking about a young African woman who turned out to be one of the greatest friends he'd gained. She stopped briefly, her smile dropping as she solemnly answered,

"Yes..." She kept walking, lowering her voice to where he could barely hear the last part before she disappeared into the staircase, "I suppose I am."


	2. Steve and Piers

_Steve and Piers_

Calm, serene—it was almost as if his soul had began resting. God knows he needed it. Was that…the smell of the ocean, the taste of salt water? Was his body surrounded by water, had his body been feed to the always hungering sea? No, he couldn't feel the oceans suffocating kisses to his skin, couldn't feel the water forcing its way up his nose, into his mouth and into his ears. He couldn't feel himself breathing; he couldn't feel anything at all. He couldn't swallow in the air of the surface because he had no lungs to drink with. He had smell; he had taste, but no touch or the ability to physically feel. He held absolutely no right to touch. The feelings of the world had long since been left alone to the humans—and he had lost his humanity the moment he sacrificed his life in exchange for his Captain's. In that moment he knew not of loss, but only of sacrifice: sacrificing his limbs, his breath, and his _feelings_. He knew not of regret in that moment—for in that moment he fell to the grounds of The Fields. He knew not of depression, or of pain, or of love. How did he know those word? How did he know what it felt like? It was a burning sensation he knew he no longer could feel. It was a knot in the throat he couldn't swallow with. His love had been the breath in his lungs at one point, the cause to his actions—but he couldn't be sure when that had been.

_Wind…_

He could smell the wind, the crisp air which blew by gently. The small of pollen and flowers was everywhere. It had been the kind of air he only knew from childhood. He remembered his mother, her soft features and petite form. She loved him very much—he knew it from the way she would glance at him and giggle as he played with his toy guns in the back yard of their spacious home. She had been doing the laundry, deciding to dry everything outside for once. Sun, he could remember the sun—his glee mixed in with hers as she grabbed his guns, the same ones he had gotten for his sixth birthday—a little toy revolver. It was unloaded; the last thing he wanted was to shoot _anything _at her. She took it and ran behind the large oak tree in their yard. She always preferred the shade of the tree to the sunlight. She hid and she hid, waiting to run out and playfully shoot him. He remembered falling to the grass to play dead. He was never good at that game—possum. She always made him giggle too much. After his seventh birthday the games stopped, along with his mother's joy of the world, and his.

_But the grass…_

The taste of green, the plant-like bitterness he tasted would have made him cringe in disgust. He couldn't hear, he couldn't see. Blind and deaf to what was going on, even worse was the fact that he couldn't even sense anything that was happening. He had died. He died and he was never coming back. He remembered the pain in his arm, the feeling of decay which aggravated the headache in the left side of his head. He remembered the tingle of electricity, the very moment when the underground facility exploded.

_Captain...Chris…_

He remembered the look his Captain had given him. He remembered the quiver he felt through his body as he closed his eyes and waited for the countdown in his mind to end. He'd lost everything with that mission: his friends, his mother, his life.

…_Light…it's blinding…_

It was there and gone in an instant, the bright white light was replaced by the calming rays of the setting sun. It was nearly night time in this strange world he dropped into. How had his body gone face first to the ground, he wondered, while spitting the grass and dirt out of his mouth. How had his body returned to him in the first place? He moved his right arm, his supposed _mutated _arm. He was normal, he returned to his untouched state. It was almost as if he had never injected that poisonous C-virus into his body. He heard the birds chirping, their wings fluttering from off in the distance. He couldn't see them from his grounded angle, but they sounded beautiful, their voices absolutely melodic. Everything about this world had begun pulling him in with its beauty. It was a field of grass and multiple flowers which stretched on as far as he could see, for miles and miles of the green and bloomed beauty. It was strange at first, the feeling—well, _lack _of feeling, yet he moved. He commanded his body and it bent to his will, getting up and standing on its own. He couldn't feel himself and he touched his arms and face. His arms moved but he felt nothing. It was as if he were a walking, smelling, tasting, hearing, and seeing _ghost_. Maybe that _was _what he was: a ghost. He sure as hell wasn't alive. Not anymore.

"What am I?" Piers whispered into the breeze, not expecting to get a response back—seemingly in his ear.

"You were exactly right: a ghost or— at least, you might as well be." Piers' eyes widened. It was as though his body was on autopilot. He screamed in his mind, his body jumped, his eyes widened. That voice was one he had never heard before. A teen? Maybe, the voice sounded like a sixteen, or so, year old kid.

"Who are you and where am I? This isn't funny, if this is a joke I swear to—" He could see his right eye twitch out of the corner of his peripheral vision.

"Walk down the hill, I could use some company." The kid dismissed his threat. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He willed his legs to move down the hill that he had only then noticed sitting some ten or so feet from him, his steps still as fluid as he could remember. With every minute he spent in this field, he began to become more and more aware of what was around him. He had expected his legs to shake and to have possibly given out from underneath him. They were strong and sturdy as they'd always been. He was grateful for that—it helped to boost his morale for walking toward the voice. He didn't see the kid until he had reached the bottom of the hill, and he couldn't see how. The kid was sitting _right there_—right in his path. Piers almost tripped over him as he came to a stop.

"Who are you," he started, reiterating his last question, "and where am I?" He _was_ young looking, his chin lying on his knees; his arms wrapping around his legs. He was clothed very strangely: combat boots and camo pants, a yellow shirt along with a button up shirt which was labeled "ROCKFORT PRISON" with the numbers, "0267" right bellow it on the back. Both written in faded white letters. Why had this kid been a prisoner? Why did the word "Rockfort" seem so familiar? Lord only knew what he'd been in for…

"Steve, my names Steve." Sure enough, it had been Steve's voice he had heard in his head. Steve's hair reminded him of someone, perhaps a shorter version of... Leon Kennedy's hair—but a reddish color.

"Well Steve, my names Piers. Nice to meet someone else here." He mumbled the last part, looking around the field, his eyes locking on the setting sun. Would the sun actually set? Would this peaceful world of theirs be plunged into the darkness? Piers had problems with the darkness. He had never been too scared of it personally, but living in a world of bioterrorism had made him cautious. But wait—what exactly was there to be cautious of anymore? He was _dead_. It wasn't like a B.O.W. could do much to—as Steve affirmed—a _ghost_.

"No." Steve said suddenly, his eyes never locking with Piers'. Piers looked quizzically towards Steve. "The sun never sets here; it always stays in that position." Had he read Piers' mind? What in the hell _was _this place? "I wondered the same thing when I first got here," Steve smiled, looking over at Piers, blue eyes twinkling in an almost unnatural nature. "just thought you might be curious. Sorry for all the depressing junk, it's been a long time since I've seen anyone. Even true manly men like me have their moments." And he laughed, an almost forced and painfully bitter sound—but a laugh nonetheless. Piers chuckled, not feeling the rumble deep in his chest, just the sound filling his ears.

"It's weird, isn't it? Not feeling anything, having every other sense but the one no one would ever think they'd lose? I can touch anything, I can pick a flower, and I could fix my clothes, but it's almost like I'm not even here. It doesn't feel like _anything._"

"How long have you been here?" The question was sudden; he wasn't sure how to ask this without coming off as rude and causing Steve to think that what he was saying had been uninteresting. Steve just grinned, probably not aware he had moved his mouth, giving away his emotions.

"I couldn't tell you—days, months. Years probably, if it's honesty hour. It all just blends in. There's nothing to do really but sit back and think, and you can't help but think back to everything in your life. There's time, we've got nothing but time now, Piers. It's time to start thinking."

"How about we talk first? What're you here for? First off, how old are you?" If they were to be there forever, Piers figured he might as well get to know the kid.

"Why do I always get that question?" Steve grumbled. "I'm seventeen, at least, I think. As for the reason I'm here, I became a test subject—T-Veronica was tested on me." There was a pregnant pause, Steve once again burying his chin in his knees. This _kid_, this poor kid had been used as a test subject to Veronica, the horrible virus used on Rockfort, the island that his Captain had told him all about one time. _That's it!_ That's where he remembered Rockfort from! Steve's next few lines came out muffled. "I was supposed to be the knight; I was supposed to get out alive with her. She was supposed to thank me with a kiss, and let me take her out to dinner when it was all over—except I never got out. I'm not sure if she did either. I was weak, I gave in. Nearly killed the woman I loved. She cried— she cried and cried. I heard her sobs for what seemed like decades. I could hear her sobs and smell the scent of decay, what that damned arena smelled like. I can still hear them..."

"The woman, she wasn't named Claire Redfield, was she?" It was a guess, a simple question he wasn't sure he should've asked at that moment.

"You know Claire!?" Steve jumped, his eyes widening, his hands reaching over to touch Piers' shoulders—more for the effect of venting his excitement than anything. "Please, tell me you know her!"

"I've never met her myself, but I served under her brother in the B.S.A.A. North American branch. He mentioned her quite often. I remember he'd use her as an example quite a few times. 'If my younger sister can best you without receiving any formal training herself, you men aren't quite fit for the battle.' He used it as motivation, but I bet Claire really _could _best us all, even with most of our training. I always admired her, she sounded tough."

"S-She…she's alive." It was in that moment that Piers had sworn he had never seen anyone happier in his life. He could tell—he could see the excitement and pure bliss through Steve's tearing up eyes. "This whole time I was never sure what happened to her…and Alexia Ashford?" Yet another name he recognized. She was some kind of wiz kid scientist, she created Veronica and sealed herself in a cryogenic sleep for fifteen-something years. All those times Piers had listened intently to Chris' stories had finally paid off.

"Killed by the Captain himself with some kind of specialty light rocket launcher—that's what Chris told me." Steve sighed, mostly in relief. Piers doubted he had been holding his breath; there was no breath to hold. He was glad—ecstatic, to be honest. Piers had a feeling he just cured a mild case of depression with that bit of information. He still felt bad. Steve was only _seventeen_; far too young to witness the things he had seen at Rockfort, far too young to have died in such a way. In fact—no one should have to die that way. "What a small world we live in."

"More like _lived_." Piers couldn't help it, he busted out laughing. He didn't know if it was the way Steve seemed to bounce back so quickly or that the stress of death had finally cracked him. Steve laughed too. It hadn't even been that funny, yet they laughed, never losing their breath and ending the laughter awkwardly. "So what're you here for. You say you served under Chris, right? Were you with him when you died?"

"Yes," Piers began uncomfortably, "I sacrificed my life for him." Steve stared, seemingly awestruck. It was hard to talk about, his death had only recently happened. Steve died in—if he was correct—1998. He supposed it was easier for Steve to talk about it because he's come to better terms with himself than Piers had. Then again, Piers could be wrong. Death was a complex and scary thing. It caused even the most perfect facades to crumble. "There…there were multiple outbreaks conducted by the terrorist Ada Wong. We had been tracking her; turns out she led us on a wild goose chase. She released a creature I couldn't even begin to describe. It had my Captain, I needed to do something. My right arm had come off, _I needed to do something_." As he flashed back to what happened he panicked, Piers wanted desperately to stop the trembling in his voice. "I saw the vial of the C-virus, the virus that had been turning everyone those creatures, only this one had been a higher dosage—a much higher dosage. I injected myself. I didn't have a choice, oh _God _I didn't have a choice. It…It had him. he was going to die." He was shaking, Steve looked worried but Piers didn't worry about Steve's pity right then. "We killed the creature. I pushed Chris into the escape pod. It was too late for me, there was no going back. I exploded with the facility. Next thing I know I'm here."

"That's… terrible." Steve frowned. Piers looked away and nodded, looking at anything to hide his shame. He hadn't really thought about his death, he knew he died, he _accepted _that he died. Thinking about what happened in explicit detail made him sick. Steve must've noted his shame. "Don't feel bad about it. You died more heroically then any other person I've never known. I lived with inmates for the last two years of my life—rejects that Umbrella found unfit to live unsupervised. It was my father's fault I was in there. He sold Umbrella out. I came home from track to my mother dead on the ground and my father gone. Umbrella took me, told me they took my father as well. We were stuck at Rockfort. Everyone there was scum, in a sick way I'm glad they died. But me and them had one thing in common, one thing you had that we didn't. You had a choice. You _chose _do to that. Not because you were forced too, not because you were accidentally exposed, and sure as hell not because you didn't have a good reason. Whether it was a good choice, well—shit, that's not up to me. Don't act like you should be ashamed when in actuality you went out fighting and in one of the most heroic ways. Everyone who remembers you will remember your heroic actions—remember a good man. Me? I'm just the forgotten and annoying seventeen year old from Michigan who never really had a chance to do anything with my life. No one misses me."

"That's not true." He was touched, honestly. Steve's words struck him deeply—the emotion in Steve's words hitting Piers hard. Despite not knowing the situation well, he had found a way to hit the nail on the head. Chris living meant the B.S.A.A. lived, everyone lived. Piers devoted his entire life to the B.S.A.A. He served his time, he made his parents proud. He had lived out his life, unlike Steve. He would be damned before he let Steve think no one loved him, not after the kind words he said. He remembered a conversation he and Chris had had, one right after Chris had explained about Alexia's death and getting out. "Claire missed you very much. Chris told me she stopped eating for a few weeks, didn't stop crying for a few more after that. He said that other than their parent's death, he had never seen anyone's death cause Claire to cry so much. She loved you Steve, I bet she misses you to this day. You aren't forgotten, believe me. You had no choice in the matter, that's true, but you sure as hell made the best of it. And besides, a brave solider like you doesn't get left behind or forgotten _that_ easily." Piers thought he smiled, he could see Steve's, he looked like he really was about to start crying. He liked the kid, he really did.

"I don't know why it had to be you who stumbled up over here, but man, I sure am glad. You know what, we're spending eternity together, and I don't think I mind." Steve looked up into the sun, the rays not harming him at all.

"I feel the same way. I don't really think either if us will ever really be lonely again. This could've turned out worse." Steve nodded. It was a blessing, really. And even though Piers had lived his whole life unsure of a heaven or a God, there had to have been something which caused them to meet. Some kind of kind fate which he would be eternally grateful for. As they sat in silence Piers thought about everything that was just said. He also thought of what else they could talk about later on. They did have forever.

…He always _did _want a younger brother.


	3. Hunnigan and Sherry

_Hunnigan and Sherry_

To say she had been nervous had been the understatement of the year. It had been a good thing she had evolved into a more and more stoic woman every year she grew. Her face showed nothing but calmness, her outfit as clean cut and as perfect as the rest of her. Professionalism had always been a pride of hers. That, and her ability to adapt and make a working last minute plan if the situation called for it. She stayed collected through the worst of times, hiding her emotions through a pin straight mouthed mask she had glued on as a result of years with her mother. Good God, her mother, an overbearing and never quiet suburban house wife, mother of two young girls. Well, one girl as of four years ago. She never stopped butting into her daughter's love life, constantly trying to set her up with men who she either didn't know, or lived thousands of miles away. Her mother meant well, but it had become an annoying and unrelentless cycle she had come to hate. Even so, it had been her mother who had been the one to introduce the phrase that she lived her life by: "Anything bad that _could_ happen, can and _will_." It had been unfortunate lesson she had learned the hard way through her short twenty years of life. Being prepared was an essential part of professionalism—and Ingrid Hunnigan was _always_ professional.

There wasn't any simple way of becoming apart of the secret service's tech support, which she had easily gotten into with her skills and professionalism alone. Computers were becoming big, and she would be there to help and watch them grow and develop alongside the United States Government. It was strange, getting into selective branches of the government—like getting a glance into a world that you had no idea even _existed_. How had she even gotten here? She had no real goals through college, only being a tech geek and working with electronics. Even at eighteen she knew she had been destined for far more than what her college had offered. College had been a breeze; she passed every class with A's, doing minimal work to accomplish it. She had done nearly two years of it before realizing it was a waste of her time. The only degree she held in her palm was her high school degree. Being a college dropout didn't particularly look good on a resume. It was a long and technical process, getting accepted. Through her excellent grades and lack of criminal history, she had been approved in only a week. It had been moments like this when she thanked the Lord above for her mother applying her for the job. It had been a hard push, especially since she had been under the self-induced impression that she didn't need anyone's help, particularly not her mother, nor her fathers to get by in life. Ever since her sisters death their family hadn't quite been the same. Her parents loved her, and she knew it—but they seemed as if they were frozen in time, stuck in the depression lined void she knew she had to get herself out of. And that meant leaving home, even if it meant digging her hole deeper. With Ingrid leaving home, her father took it the hardest, but he respected her choice. He even put in a word with his old friend, Derek C. Simmons, who worked closely under the government, after he heard about her mother applying her for the job.

Breathe, just breathe, Ingrid repeated to herself numerous times, pausing her repeated chants a few times to silently nod her head toward her new colleagues, who nodded as they walked by themselves. Her stomach had still been queasy from the flight to D.C.; she had an overall uneasy feeling. She felt like something big was going to happen, whether it be good or bad—she couldn't be sure. She had learned to trust her gut, and it was telling to her beware.

"Ah, Ms. Hunnigan, so glad to have you with us," a voice, a familiar one at that, exclaimed with a peppy tone she had only heard used with her mother.

"Director Connor, pleasure to meet you in person, sir." Ingrid shot back with a fond smile. Director Anthony Connor, a fifty year old man who Hunnigan had already come to admire and respect because of the kindness he showed her through the phone—he had even given her his personal number in case she had trouble getting to where she needed to be. Unfortunately, she had. He helped her through every minute of her confusion this morning; he was a very kind man.

"Enough with the formalities, just call me Connor, in return I'll just call you Hunnigan. Deal? Sounds fair enough to me." The man was very expressional, his eyes gave his emotions away so easily. Well, when he was happy at least. Hunnigan nodded. It would be strange hearing herself be called Hunnigan by nearly everyone in the work place, especially since she had come from a small town where everyone knew everyone else on a first name basis. "Since it's your first day I put in a request to show you around. I don't know what it was, but something about you sprung out at me, I expect great things from you already. Can anyone say 'high expectations'?" He laughed, and Hunnigan laughed along silently.

"But Sir—I mean, _Connor_—high expectations either breed excellence or boot the unworthy, at least, from what I've learned. As long as there's an expectation, I'll meet it—that _is_ my job. I didn't come here to sell Avon products, though my outfit might suggest otherwise." She glanced down to her outfit with an odd look. She was used to dressing like that, clean and business-like, but it didn't mean that was exactly her favorite cup of tea. Connor chuckled once more.

"I think you'll be fine here, miss. As I was saying, I've decided to make your first day gettin' you used to the place. I'd hate to see you get lost around here, not that you can help it. And if you do later on in the future, you know who to call. It's no inconvenience." Hunnigan blushed from the embarrassment of this morning. She had nearly forgotten. "The first area I'll show you is your work area, then the kitchen and bathroom areas. You smoke?" The question made Hunnigan crinkle her nose in disgust. Her father smoked. She hated the smell with a passion; she could never imagine inhaling those tar-filled cancer sticks into her lungs.

"No, sir."

"Then we can skip the smoking area, perfect."

It had been four hours and they had gone through every room the large four floored, double connected buildings that her new work place offered. Connor had even led her towards some of the lower areas which Hunnigan had thought were off limits to simple desk job workers. Hunnigan briefly wondered why Connor would bring her down _here _of all places. She also wondered why this place was underground, yet didn't have an elevator. The stairs were killing her feet.

"And this—this is the holding area. Since we entered the science wing a few corners back, we have our scientists working on a few projects. No need to worry, the patients are stable, taken care of, and in excellent condition. They're helping with some very important things, here." It was becoming hard to hide her disgust, but luckily the mask hadn't cracked yet. These people were human guinea pigs, nothing more, nothing less. They had nothing going for them, nothing to really do but sit and be tested on, as far as she could tell. Having no free will in America, a real tragedy, but nothing new. Who knows what kind of horrors were going on while the public remained ignorant to their testing? Yes, she realized it had to be done, but testing on humans had always made her feel sick. The rooms were nothing but large plastic rectangles in the walls, practically a plastic bubble-type prison. There were desks, bathrooms, beds, antenna TV's, some even had game systems from what she could see. All white, just like their clothes. _What kind of lives do these people have_, she briefly wondered. "Hello?" Connor answered his phone. "Shit, I'll be right there. Hunnigan, do you mind waiting for a bit? Something urgent just came up. I promise it'll take me no more than fifteen minutes, then you can go home and our day will be done." She nodded a yes at the man, her mind screaming no. What was she supposed to do, watch these people like they were her own private entertainment? Yet she had no room to protest, no right. So she watched him turn around the corner and leave, sighing and looking into the room nearest her. There was a young girl, no more than fifteen years old, sitting on her bed, looking at her. She was never good with kids, but smiled nonetheless and waved.

"Hello." The girl looked at her cautiously, but smiled and waved back nonetheless.

"You're welcome to come in if you want…" Hunnigan looked surprised, she could plainly hear the girls voice from inside the prison. She looked at the side to see the door propped open. She was apprehensive, but smiled and accepted graciously. She wouldn't mind talking if it meant getting out of the awkward hallway. Walking into the room she was greeted with an, "I've never seen you before, are you a new nurse?" by the girls soft voice.

"No, just a passerby. I just started here today, I _was _being shown around but things came up. Thanks for inviting me in; by the way, you really saved me from an awkward fifteen minutes." The girl looked a little startled, as if inviting someone in was something forbidden if they weren't nurses. Hunnigan sighed. She really was tired, those stairs were hell, and even though she prided herself on professionalism, it could _go_ to hell right now. She was too tired to care, and it wasn't like this teen would tell anyone, anyway. Hunnigan took off her heels, rubbing her black stocking covered feet with her hands and sitting down at the desks chair ten feet away from the bed. "Geeze, it should be a crime to put that may stairs and no elevator." Sherry giggled, covering her mouth with her sleeve. She was a very cute girl; her hair cut short, her eyes a stunning shade of blue. Her features were very pretty; she would grow up to be a beautiful woman, Hunnigan was sure. "So what's your name?"

"Sherry, my names Sherry," she claimed softly, removing the sleeve from her mouth.

"And I'm Ingrid, but you can call me Hunnigan, nice to meet you." The girl nodded, looking down at the tile floor.

"It's been so long since anyone's come to see me. It really is nice to talk to someone else other than nurses who always poke at me with needles. I-It's so painful; I just wish it would stop. I just want my family to come for me. I wish they would take me away from this place and we could live as a haply, like they promised." The sadness in her voice was heartbreaking, so very heartbreaking. She had family, what was she doing here, away from them?

"Who is your family?" Hunnigan asked softly. Normally she wasn't one to talk to kids like they were babies, which never helped—it almost always made them feel embarrassed and less sociable. She tried to avoid that, but her calming big-sister side always reared its ugly head.

"They aren't actually my family…they saved my life though. I-I was being chased by this horrible creature, the city was in ruins, they saved me from Raccoon—Claire Redfield and Leon Kennedy. I try to be strong every day, for them. I try so hard to be like Claire—strong and independent. She's such an amazing woman. I feel so bad; sometimes I just don't want to be _here_. I just want to leave this place, from everything I've seen; sometimes I'd rather die than be here! I'm so weak and selfish; Claire can go on, why can't I?" And she sobbed, she cried into her sleeve. Jesus, she shouldn't have asked about her family at all. The poor girl had been in the Raccoon City disaster? She had heard about that, it was a chemical spill, something to that extent. Whatever happened, they nuked it; it was taken off the maps. That was two years ago…but what was she doing here? Did she have radiation poisoning? No, there would've been a sign saying she was contaminated by something.

"How old are you?" Hunnigan got up and sat down on the bed next to Sherry, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I'm fourteen."

"Too young for those horrors," Hunnigan sighed, "I would say that I'm sorry but I don't believe my apologies could do much. It won't give you back your innocence." Placing her arms on her legs she continued, "I know what it's like to lose innocence, too. We all have that luggage we carry around, but it's about how you live on. I know this Claire and Leon would feel the same way. You seem so bright; so beautiful, so young. I know I have no right to say this, I don't know what's like to be in your shoes. It's not quite the same for me, but I was around your age, a bit older—sixteen. _God_ it had been horrible. Growing up is never a good thing, Sherry." It took all of her willpower not to cry, she closed her eyes trying not to imagine the scene. It would always be there, in the back of her mind. The dead look in her sisters brown eyes, the sleep like state her body had been in. She shook her sister, she shook and shook—Anna never woke up.

"W-What happened when you were sixteen?" Sherry innocently asked.

"I had been sixteen, just getting home from school. I had a younger sister, Annaleisa—Anna, she was fourteen, your age. My father was at work; my mother had been out and about. I got home; something was wrong, very wrong. She didn't greet me—she always greeted me, every day. If she didn't I could always her her music playing from upstairs. There was always some indication she was home. And I knew she had been home; volleyball practice had been canceled that day. She had been so good at the sport." Hunnigan smiled fondly, the darkness around her not as comforting as the pictures in her head of her younger sister smiling as they played volleyball together. "We were each others best friends, we told each other everything. I screamed to her—but still got no response, she _always _responded. I—she was upstairs. I found her before I found the note. She overdosed on pills; she had been long dead by the time I got there. This caused me to think, she left school early, my mother would never tell me if she had known my sister was home. My mom never liked talking about it at all. I called the ambulance; there was nothing they would do. I hadn't even known she was depressed. She had been acting distant at that time, and her best friend had been killed in an accident. Her note told me that this wasn't my fault. She told me that there was nothing I could do. She said—she said I was the best big sister ever. Nothing would ever change that." Hunnigans throat hurt, swallowing lumps didn't hurt nearly as bad as her heart did.

"What I'm trying to say, Sherry, is not to give up. They love you, and you'll get out of here eventually. I'll ask everyday if I need to. I'll visit every day I can if it helps. Just don't cry, you _are _as strong as Claire." And she hugged Sherry, she hugged her tight until Connor came back, dismissing her and looking into the room awkwardly. She asked permission to stay a few extra hours, it was granted. She started talking and laughing with Sherry, making a new friend.

"I'll come back at _least _three times a week, definitely the minimum, okay? Just hang in there, keep smiling like Claire would." And with that she left, returning the next day, and the day after that. She kept her promise until the day Sherry had been released.


End file.
